On the Mountain (Follow your Bliss #5) (17 page)

With the food settled for the
holiday, Baskia and Wes worked into the evening for the next days finishing the
basement. A company installed the carpeting and two burly guys with muddy boots
delivered the mattresses. Baskia spent the day before Christmas Eve vacuuming,
making the beds, and getting the house ready.

She didn’t expect to see Wes that
day, but the sound of snow crunching beneath tires brought her to the door.

Wes stepped out of the pickup.
“There’s one thing we missed,” he said, reaching the porch with a box in his
hands.

“What’s that?” she asked,
mentally going over every detail of the last two weeks, horrified she’d overlooked
something crucial.

“Lights and a tree of course.”

Wes set the massive Scotch pine
in the stand beside the crackling fire. Baskia brought over two mugs of cocoa.

Wes grinned. “Fitting.”

While they trimmed the tree, Wes
told stories about several of the homespun decorations. He tucked a few away
without a word. The smell of tempera paint, glue, and memories told Baskia that
was what it would be like if her family had participated in the typical
traditions around the holidays; instead of the housekeeper doing the
decorating.

They sat back admiring their
work, finishing the last drops of rich cocoa, and toasting their feet by the
fire.

“Be the light,” Wes all but
whispered.

“Hmm?” Baskia asked, the words
popping from one Christmas bulb to another.

He sighed. “I better get going.
Oh, hang on, I got you something.”

Baskia’s cheeks flushed. She
didn’t have anything to offer except the wad of cash she took out of the ATM to
pay him for his help.

Wes went to his jacket and pulled
out a thin parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with a red string.

“Merry Christmas,” he said.

Baskia opened it to find a simple
journal with the word smile written in small gold print along the bottom.

“I’m known more for my signature
pout, but I could use the reminder,” Baskia said, allowing her lips to turn up
into a smile.

“Your smile reminds me of someone
I know who hasn’t smiled in a long time.”

“Thanks,” Baskia said,
appreciating the thoughtful gift.

“Your present hasn’t come yet. I
ordered it.” Baskia felt bad about lying, but in all her preparations, she’d
forgotten about a gift for him.

“Well, hopefully everything will
get here before the storm.”

“Storm?”

“It’s supposed to hit on
Christmas Eve. Tomorrow night.”

Baskia hadn’t paid attention to
the weather, as busy as she’d been. “Hey, here, this is for you. In case you
need to buy some more gifts.” She handed him the money.

Wes refused the cash, but Baskia
insisted. “You can donate it to the library or buy me a slice of pizza next
time.

He left on a gust of cold air and
laughter.

The wind howled against the
window whipping up worry about the incoming storm. After climbing into bed,
Baskia opened the journal, hoping for a distraction. She dated the first page
and wrote,

10 things I’ve learned from Wes
Carter (some of which may have been induced by paint fumes.)

1.
                 
Be
humble and kind.

2.
                 
You
can never be too prepared for the winter.

3.
                 
Pizza
joints do not deliver to rural locations.

4.
                 
Satisfaction
comes from doing it yourself (DIY.)

5.
                 
There’s
something Zen about painting. Find Zen everywhere.

6.
                 
There’s
a difference between being quiet and listening.

7.
                 
Comfort
can be found in predictability.

8.
                 
Be the
light.

9.
                 
Self-sufficiency
is underrated, but it’s okay to ask for help.

10.
             
Smile.

As she scrawled the last one, she
fell asleep with a smile on her face.

Chapter
Seventeen

The words that woke Baskia on
Christmas Eve morning were patience, preparation, and adamantine, but that may
have had something to do with the glitzy Jimmy Choos she’d dreamt about.

She texted Will, asking when he
expected to arrive. She hit resend four times before it finally sent. Her phone
remained quiet as the day rolled on.

Baskia fluttered around the
house, arranging, and rearranging, making sure everything was perfect. She
brought her luggage to the basement, returned with a couple bottles of wine,
set out cheese and crackers, and waited while she browsed online for a gift to
give to Wes until she picked out a book on architecture.

Chilly, as the December wind
continued to howl, Baskia crumbled newspaper, set it in the hearth, and then
made a tepee out of kindling. She struck a match and watched it catch. The
sharp scent of wood smoke filled the house as she laid a log on top. Looking
around, she credited herself—and Wes—with creating the picture perfect holiday:
the tree, lights, a warm fire, and delicious food. She took a few pictures,
looking forward to posting them.

One o’clock came and went, but
there was still no sign of her mom and dad. By three, she’d started
compulsively checking her phone before giving up, gathering her coat and
gloves, ready to head down the mountain, hoping she’d pass them on their way
up.

At the bottom, she received a
signal and checked her voicemail. Nothing. She called her mother, only to leave
a message. She went back up the mountain, expecting they’d be shortly behind
her. The cloud-muted day faded to evening. Baskia checked the weather, pleased
to see they’d not only have a white Christmas, but fresh snow would fall,
making the dirty slush pristine by morning.

In the light of the glowing tree,
Baskia watched out the window, hoping to see headlights beaming through the
dark. Anxious about the uncertain arrival of her guests, even though they were
just her lousy parents, Baskia uncorked a bottle of wine and stared into the fridge,
wondering if she should bother reheating the first round of food that Patty had
sent up. She shrugged, and turned back to the living room.

She browsed her social media,
wishing friends and associates from modeling a happy holiday. She paused on a
waif-thin photo tagged Kate London mugging for a selfie, and sighed.

Finally, at half-past eight, and
with half of the merlot empty, Baskia fixed a plate from the sumptuous meal and
ate in front of the fire. When the coals burned low, she tossed in another log
and slouched off with a book in one hand and a wineglass in the other. 

Baskia’s phone vibrated the next
morning as she pulled herself from sleep. The stained, but empty wineglass sat
on the night table. “Merry Christmas,” she said, rubbing her head and pawing
around for the phone. The text said,

Sorry. Won’t be able to make it
Sis. The storm rages. Happy Xmas. Love, Will

Her plans were turned upside down
and shaken. They looked like a snow globe, and not only because of the flurry
visible through the window. Flakes fell and swirled in every direction. The
black car was adrift in a sea of frozen, white waves as the snow drove down.

Tugging on her winter gear, she
plodded outside and loaded wood before digging out the BMW. She was supposed to
go to Patty’s to pick up the rest of the food. The two refrigerators in the old
farmhouse contained the four-course meal, except for a few items Patty insisted
she make fresh that morning.

Baskia patrolled the yard, her
boots buried in snow, trying to find a cell signal. Finally, she got two bars
and dialed her mother.

“Hello,” Anne answered.

“Hi, Mom. Merry Christmas,” she
called over the wind.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. We’re not
going to be able to make it up there. What with the storm, we figured it would
be wiser to stay here. Didn’t you get the message?”

“Nope.”

“Don’t worry though. We won’t be
alone. Betsy Strothman is having us over for dinner and dessert. You should see
her tree. It’s magnificent. Did you know you can send pictures with your
phone?”

“Yes. I knew that,” Baskia said
through gritted teeth. The wall of snow surrounding her feet barely kept her
anchored.

“I hope you have a Merry
Christmas, dear. You know, the older I get the less I like winter. Maybe we’ll
come up in the spring when it thaws. In the meantime, Baskia, we have to make
some decisions about your future. Now, I’ll send you the names of the alums,
and they’ll talk to you about different options. If you have any questions, I’m
sure they’ll be able to point you in the right direction.”

The wind gusted icy bits of snow,
pelting Baskia’s face, but nothing stung as much as Anne’s preoccupation with
everything except the present.

 “Bye,” she said in a small
voice, afraid she might splinter and crack open if she said more.

In front of the fire, Baskia sunk
into the couch, not intending to get up until next year. As the fire burned
low, she knew that the thick pressure in her chest wasn’t so much from the fact
that her parents weren’t going to make it, the raging storm, or that she was
alone. She was upset because she didn’t feel loved, seen, or accepted or any of
the things the self-help books told her might be the root of her problem. She'd
also read that the surest way to fix that was to cultivate those qualities in
herself. She’d never really thought about loving herself. It seemed cheesy and
pushed her a little too far along the road of narcissism that she already trod.
She saw herself every day in the mirror, in magazines, and even a few times on
film; she didn’t dislike whom she saw, but she didn’t fully understand what it
meant to accept that person.

What do you want? XO

Trace’s message, as if whispered
from the walls of the house itself, filtered into her mind. Did she want him?
No, she probably wouldn’t see him again. Did she want mommy and daddy to tell
her she’d done a good job, give her a gold star, and praise her tirelessly? She
couldn’t bring herself to care. Did she want a purpose? She had one. She was a
model.

What was it? What did her heart
desire? Transfixed by the dying flame, yearning danced in the orange-yellow
glow telling her she wanted all of those things. Every single one of them,
boldly, deeply, and immediately. Maybe knowing that was the path to acceptance,
but she wasn’t sure any of them were her ultimate destination.

She pulled out the journal from Wes
and spent the next hour filling pages about what she loved and hated about
Trace. She wrote that she wanted a long conversation where her mother heard
her, and an even longer one with her father, listening to the soft and leathery
tones of his voice—with him actually talking. She reflected on modeling and
what it meant to her. By the time her hand ached, she’d explored, but hadn’t
pinpointed any specific thing that whispered
Yes, this is your gift; this is
what you’re meant to do.
The question lingered.
What do you want?

Just after she got up, stretched,
and went to the kitchen to get something to eat, the overhead light flickered
and went out. Baskia flipped the switches on and off a few times before Wes’s
warning about frozen pipes rushed her to the hearth where she immediately
stoked the fire. She couldn’t imagine all their hard work in the basement under
several feet of water.

Wandering the yard, nearly losing
sight of the cabin as she searched, she fretted about Patty, having prepared
the sumptuous meal, and with no way to tell her she wouldn’t be picking it up.

Baskia brought her luggage back
upstairs, along with another bottle of wine. Pouring herself a glass, she tried
to read by the dim light of the window, but kept worrying about being stuck
there without electricity.

Baskia heard the scraping of a
plow outside. She rushed out in her boots and coat, flagging Wes down so he
didn’t run into her or worse, leave without saying hello.

“Merry Christmas. Where are your
guests?” he said, as if the storm were no big deal.

“Not coming. The weather.”

She explained the power outage,
and Wes checked the metal box in the basement, making an additional fire in the
woodstove down there as a precaution. “You might go through wood faster, but
you’ll want to keep this thing going day and night as long as the heat is out.”

Baskia didn’t look forward to
babysitting the woodstove, but she didn’t have much else to do.

“What about all that food from
Patty?” Wes asked. “When I was a kid, I went to her son Robbie’s birthday
party. Seriously, the best cake. Understand, I was a ten year old boy—super
heroes, baseball, and all that stuff—and the highlight of that party was the
cake.”

“You should try her potatoes.”
Then Baskia had an idea. “No really, you should. Could you bring us over there?
She’s alone. We’re alone. We could all eat together. I mean, if you are, in
fact, alone.”

“I’m free until four. Well, I
have more plowing to do, but most of my customers expect to wait until the
storm is over so they don’t have to pay twice.”

“Why did you come up here then?”

“I knew you were having
visitors.”

“Was. Yeah.” Baskia said, the
weight of loneliness descending like a wet blanket of snow.

Nearly forty-five minutes later,
Patty welcomed Baskia and Wes into the toasty farmhouse. “I wondered what
happened to you. I’m just glad everything is all right. You’re welcome to stay
here the night, if you like.”

“Thanks. But even though the
storm kept my family from coming up, I still have to tend the fire.”

“Spoken like a true New
Englander,” Patty said, her rosy cheeks shining.

Wes smirked.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Baskia
said, straightening her knit top.

“Well, a feast for us at any
rate,” Patty said, pulling out plates and silverware.

After the lavish meal, Patty
insisted Baskia take the leftovers, including the desserts, with her. “Just
freeze it, that way you’ll have food on hand if you get snowed in again.”

“I’m sure the power will be back
on in no time. The log cabin is on the same line as yours, and I’ve never been
without electricity for more than a day or two,” Wes assured her.

This heartened Baskia, but she
suddenly felt far out of her league, questioning whether trying to make a life
out in the country was her worst idea yet.

Later, as Wes drove slowly
through the snowy streets, the pie on her lap did little to bring her warmth or
comfort.

Climbing the mountain Wes said,
“You’re quiet. Usually I’m the one daydreaming.”

“Is that what you do?”

He half-grinned.

“I listen too, don’t worry, I
heard that thing you said about missing regular manicures.”

Baskia chuckled. “Good thing I’m
wearing gloves. What do you daydream about?”

“Mountains. Buildings. Former
architecture student, remember? I think about how it sometimes seems like if
I’m high enough up, I can kiss the sky.”

She liked the sound of that
despite her fear of heights. “Do you want to finish your degree someday?”

“I’ve been doing a few classes
online, picking away at it, but it’s not the same.”

“So what’s keeping you from just
going back? Is it money?” Baskia asked. She hadn’t received the bill for the
plowing yet, but she didn’t imagine it afforded him a college education. Never
mind what he did the rest of the year. Before they could discuss it further,
they arrived at the cabin.

“Want me to check on the fires
for you?” he asked.

Baskia imagined she could handle
it, but going into the dark house, alone, freaked her out. “If you don’t mind.”

She used the cell phone’s glow to
guide her to matches and lit a candle. Wes stoked the woodstove, the fireplace,
and brought in enough wood to last her until the morning. “Anything else?”

“Well, it is Christmas. How about
dessert?”

Wes smiled. “I suppose that would
be okay. I have until four.”

Without slicing the pumpkin pie,
she brought out two forks, and they dug in.

“So what happens at four?” Baskia
asked.

Wes coughed and then chugged his
water as if to delay answering. “I have to visit family.”

“Oh, are they around here? You
haven’t talked much about them except for the carpenters in Nebraska, and what
other state was it?”

“Maryland. Those are my dad’s
brothers. I haven’t seen them in…it’s been a year.” Wes was quiet, and they
both looked into the fire, the wood crackling, and the flames dancing as if in
the heart of the blaze they would find answers to whatever they were looking
for.   

“A year, since your father died?”
Baskia said in a small voice, venturing timidly into uncomfortable territory.
After all the things Wes had done for her, she had the feeling he needed
someone to talk to. Or rather, he teetered on a chasm and desperately needed
someone to listen to him, if only so that in hearing his own voice, he’d know
that if he let go, it was a long way to fall.